


Whole

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Dry Humping, Established Relationship, Ficlet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-12
Updated: 2018-02-12
Packaged: 2019-03-17 05:59:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13652871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Eönwë returns home to find soft humming.





	Whole

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Fill for fantasychica37’s“a sequel to any of your Eönwë and Maglor fics featuring smut” suggestion and peasantwhy’s vote on [my tumblr’s](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/) what should my 1700th fic be question.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Silmarillion or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

Sometimes, there are little thoughts that nag at him—the strange, sinking feeling that he isn’t yet _complete_ —that something, intangible and inexplicable, is missing from his existence. When he was first formed, Eönwë thought that perhaps it was because he _wasn’t_ truly complete—not while there were still tasks to do for his master. His purpose was to serve Manwë in all things, and that service is never ending.

Then, at a time, he had thought that maybe it was _because_ of this form: this odd, limiting figure all around him: a form so very like the _elves_ , and so little like the pure spirit that he once was. 

But there are also times where he _is_ satisfied, when he wants for nothing. And those mostly come, not at the end of his duties to his lord, but in the quiet, simple moments found about his home—the sprawling estate that sits below the mountains. In a way, it only became a _home_ very recently, in the grand, ephemeral grasp of _time_ : when one lone elf was delivered back from beyond the shores, into his trust and into his arms. He promised Manwë that he would watch over his charge, that his walls would be both prison and redemption for the final son of Fëanáro. He’s done so, and found reward in turn.

When he’s finished for the time with Manwë’s council, he returns straight home, eager for something that the rest of Valinor’s glory can’t hope to offer. He eyes the balconies as he steps through the gate, and he trails through the courtyards on his way up to the second floor, scanning every garden through each window that he passes. They all prove empty. The dining hall is barren, and finally, he reaches his bedchambers, where he can rest the weary body he’s been given. But it, too, is empty.

The air is not. Through it drifts a soft lullaby. The lilting tune draws Eönwë forward. He follows it across the cropped carpet and past the walk-in wardrobe, through to the attached bathing chambers. Inside, candles are lit about the white walls, and their glowing flames lick the walls in a deep, yellow-orange glow. The wide, round bath recessed into the center of the floor if full of opaque water, the surface split into a thousand little bubbles. Kanafinwë rests against the side, a sweet melody falling from his lips.

For a moment, Eönwë is still and silent. It strikes him, as it so often does, how very blessed he is to have this: how very _beautiful_ Kanafinwë is, even for all the long years spent on mortal shores. His dark hair is as silken and sleek as it always was, bundled now atop his head in a fraying bun held with many thin braids and a single silver ribbon. His lush skin is flushed hot from the water, his taut chest graceful even when relaxed, his handsome face thrown back and his dark lashes down against his cheeks. The tips of his knees breech the water before him, his delicate hands laid atop them. He hums like a nightingale, voice perfect even without words. Eönwë’s chest swells just to hear it.

To _see_ it, to eye Kanafinwë like this, exposed in all his naked glory, is a fine treasure worth more than every other tribute Eönwë’s ever received. He doesn’t dare to interrupt the scene until Kanafinwë’s dark eyes drift open and fall to him, a languid smile stretching across rose petal lips. Eönwë has no true _need_ to breathe, but he finds himself doing so, and quicker, when in Kanafinwë’s presence.

He announces, “You hum beautifully.” And Kanafinwë smiles with dizzying radiance, as though Eönwë’s praise is all he lives for.

But he averts his gaze and murmurs humbly, “Thank you. But I do apologize for indulging so, both in idle song and the splendor of your chambers.” He draws up as he says it, slinking into better posture, as though ready to rise out of the water all together. “I should be available to my host. I will clean up and dress, if you wish for proper music...” He trails off, and Eönwë shakes his head.

“No. You are as welcome to my chambers as to all of my home, as I have told you many times. And there is no need to end your peace on my account.” Kanafinwë parts his pretty lips, likely to protest, but Eönwë rolls on, “What I desire now is company.” He gestures towards the bath, adding, “If you will have me...?”

Kanafinwë draws his knees up to his chest as though making room, though there is room enough for up to a dozen elves. He answers, “Always.” 

Though Eönwë expected nothing less, he feels blessed as he answers the call. He sheds his robes in simple, easy movements, allowing the pale fabric to tumble to the tiles below. Kanafinwë’s eyes begin at his face, but drift lazily down his body as he reveals more of it, in a comfortable, admiring sort of gaze that Eönwë would love to return. Except that something always comes over him when he sees Kanafinwë undress—some shivering, wanton shred of _desire_ that makes him feel both hungry and ashamed—like he’s breeching such a fair creature’s propriety with the cruel depths of his lust. Even after so much time, this body is still _strange_ to him.

Kanafinwë seems to like it well enough. He watches as Eönwë steps forward into the water. Eönwë settles down on the submerged bench a respectable distance from his charge, but Kanafinwë slips wordlessly over, coming to rest just at his side, close enough that their legs brush beneath the water. Pleasantly warm, it laps against his abdomen. His eyes fall to Kanafinwë’s lips as Kanafinwë asks, “How went your council with Manwë?”

“Well,” Eönwë answers, and when Kanafinwë tilts his head curiously, Eönwë expands: “though I am afraid I cannot speak of such things with the Eldar.”

Kanafinwë dips his head, promising, “I understand.” He looks as though he truly does, though he couldn’t possibly. 

In a way, it pains Eönwë to hold things from Kanafinwë, who has, in many ways, become the closest to him. He tries to explain, “If it is any consolation, my songbird, there are things that I do with you of which I would not speak before Manwë.”

A cute smile graces Kanafinwë’s lips. He asks, “Oh?” And seems to want to know _what things_. Eönwë means to find the words to answer.

But the more he looks at Kanafinwë’s loveliness, the more everything else seems to fall away. Though he’s generally more for contemplation than action, Eönwë chooses to _show_ what he means. He leans forward and brushes his lips over Kanafinwë’s, sighing happily as Kanafinwë automatically responds. Kanafinwë rises into him, presses back, and the two of them share a long, albeit chaste, kiss. 

When they finish, their faces still held close, Kanafinwë murmurs, “You know, I had wondered what the official word of the Maiar was on such things.”

“There is no word,” Eönwë admits. “We do not speak of it. I do not think we are meant to think of it. But when I look at you...”

He doesn’t finish, because he isn’t sure how, and he doesn’t need to. Kanafinwë leans forward for another kiss, and then another, and then one slender leg is thrown across him, and Kanafinwë slides smoothly into his lap. Eönwë elicits a small gasp of pleasure into Kanafinwë’s mouth as Kanafinwë’s plush thighs spread around him and brush against his sides. Kanafinwë’s hands land atop his broad shoulders, Kanafinwë’s lips held against his own. Kanafinwë kisses him with crushing tenderness, and Eönwë rises up to taste it like Arien leaping to the sky.

It becomes more than that. They share deep, heated kisses, their mouths soon opening to press their tongues from one cavern to another, and their hands wander, tracing warm, wet skin. Eönwë draws his hands across the lithe plains of Kanafinwë’s arched spine, around the hard jutting of his hips, down over the round globes of his rear. Kanafinwë thrusts forward into him, grinding against his stomach, their two shafts trapped and quickly stiffening. The more Kanafinwë rocks them together, the harder Eönwë becomes. This, too, is something only Kanafinwë has stirred in him, but so often and so easily, because so many things about Kanafinwë _please_ him so greatly. Kanafinwë, he thinks, has surely taken Fëanáro’s place as the greatest of the elves, if such a contest there even was—for even when Kanafinwë was young, Eönwë remembers marveling in his song, often played beneath his balcony with naïve hope and wonder. The older, wiser creature that now shares his halls is every bit as wondrous. Eönwë makes his ardour known with his hands and mouth, and Kanafinwë seems to delight in his attentions.

They rut together for a time, the water remaining temperate for Eönwë’s command, and the state of their arousal all the better for it. Eönwë would be perfectly content to live in this moment for eternity, but his lover, unfortunately, doesn’t share that luxury.

Kanafinwë eventually reaches his end, spilling into the water with a broken cry. His hand darts to cover his mouth, though Eönwë always loves all his noises, and it seems a shame to stifle them now. Still, it’s too late. Kanafinwë whimpers into his palm and grinds himself out against Eönwë’s willing body. Eönwë allows himself the same finish. He unwinds against Kanafinwë’s stomach and the ebbing tide. His orgasm is no less blissful for its planning. His pleasure is both boundless and the best that it could be. He looks on Kanafinwë’s shattered face as he comes, and the raw magnificence of it delivers him.

By the time that he’s spent, Kanafinwë has slumped forward. His arms wrap tiredly around Eönwë’s shoulders, and he presses his damp forehead against the side of Eönwë’s face. His plaint body surrenders completely to Eönwë’s hold. And Eönwë draws him closer, gently petting his satiated form

And there, satisfied and _happy_ , Eönwë is complete.


End file.
